


Nerds Ain't Got Shit

by Limesparrow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bro Has a Wimp Kink, Dave and Bro Aren't Related, M/M, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limesparrow/pseuds/Limesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PE needs to stop existing, but it won't, and you need the credit to graduate. Given the creepy-ass looks from your teacher, this semester might end in pure hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nerds Ain't Got Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleabit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleabit/gifts).



> Heyoooo! This was a fun prompt and I'm glad I got a chance to fill it. I certainly amused myself! Hope you enjoy. <3

It's sort of weird, how much two people who aren't related at all and honestly don't have a lot in common can look like each other.

Coach Bro has what you might call chronic douchebag syndrome- he wears a baseball cap and shitty anime shades all the time. He's also ripped as fuck and wears too-tight polos to show it off. You're not even sure how a guy who dresses like that can get a job at a school, but the school board isn't picky about its PE teachers, if Mr. Slick down in the junior high is any indication. There's rumors he stabbed a kid and he's getting fired, which is stupid, because if he stabbed a kid they'd just throw him in jail.

No one ever said the student body is smart; thus, why they keep comparing you to Coach Bro (and isn't that the douchebaggiest fucking name you ever heard, anyway?) even though your similarities are purely skin-deep. Just because you both wear shades and have that same sort of white-blond hair doesn't mean you're fucking related.

Besides, you've got acne out the ass and insane amounts of metal in your mouth- plus some red bands -and you are nowhere near muscular. Actually, you're about exactly the opposite, and Jade and John punch you in the arms all the time just to tease you about how noodly you are.

Bastages.

References to fantastically awful 80s movies aside, you're sort of fed up with the Coach Bro craze and you cannot for the life of you get out of it. Every time you get near him your voice completely dies in your throat. _You,_ Dave "never stops talking and all his metaphors eventually get away from him and escape the fucking corral and ride off into the damn sunset" Strider, are rendered speechless by this dickhead.

You really don't get it, except that every bit of Bro radiates danger and sometimes you can sense him looking at you; that wouldn't be so bad on its own, except then he'll smirk and tilt his head just so and you'll go mysteriously weak at the knees like in some Japanese anime, your heart going doki doki all the way home. 

You're not attracted to him or anything. He fucking terrifies you. Unfortunately, there's some sort of fine line there that all your friends seem to think you are irrevocably close to crossing, and it doesn't help that Coach Bro feels you up just about every chance he can get- well, no, that's coming on a bit strong, you're sure it's not that obvious or someone would have reported it by now. You don't know why you haven't reported it by now.

He's just touchy-feely, is all, and you know you sound like every statistic ever when you say you don't want to report something that's really nothing, but you can't help it. He'll be behind you before you even know what's happening, a hands-on demonstration of how to swing the bat in the baseball unit or how to bump the damn ball in the volleyball unit.

Yeah, actually, you think he's found a way to put his hands on you every couple of weeks under the guise of helping you not be shit at sports. 

It's so fucking subtle, though, that you're not even sure what to make of it. No, he doesn't do it to anyone else, but you know you're god-fucking-awful at everything except badminton. The thing about badminton, though, is that it doesn't need strength or even speed- just wrists and reflexes. You've got those, but you get all wheezy in sports that require you to move too much. It's probably some kind of asthma, but you've never actually been unable to breathe, so no one gets on your case about it. Incidentally, if Coach Bro gets too close to you while you're having lung trouble, he gives you a hard pat on the back that always nearly sends you flying, and you're pretty sure he's touched your ass more than once. It's fleeting, but he's done it.

The final nail in the 'Coach Bro is a creepy weird adult who you should probably avoid at all costs but damn it you need the PE credits to graduate, what kind of fucked up system is this?' coffin is probably near the end of the year in the only PE unit you've ever been any good at. Yeah, badminton- you and Rose are kicking Jade and John's asses, real succinct like, getting back at them for all the hideous losses they've inflicted upon you in other games like soccer and basketball. 

That's when Coach Bro calls you out, the exact same way he's called you out at the beginning of every unit, his voice all gruff and deep. "Dave!" he says, and you fumble the serve for the birdie. It spirals carelessly to the ground and you stare after it, steadfastly not looking in Bro's direction. You don't need to; you can feel him come up behind you, standing probably too close but far enough away that you're sure it's not arousing any suspicions from others. Still, the hair of your neck starts standing on end, all spooky like a cold draft just hit you.

"Why don't you pick up that birdie and I'll show you how to really serve, lil' man?" His voice is practically right next to your ear, or maybe that's just how strongly his presence exudes from his body. God, Coach Bro is like a fucking menace. You don't know how people stand it.

You also don't know why he's picking on you again, because you've been serving goddamn perfectly this entire time. Except, honestly, you do know, and that spooks the shit out of you. Coach Bro is, in every sense of the word, a jock, and in a few other senses of a few other words, he's also a teacher and, like, thirty or something. Jocks have never made you comfortable.

But you hear him tap his foot a few times, slowly, casually, but you know he's waiting for you to get the damn birdie. You do, leaning down and snagging it between your scrawny fingers- he makes a soft noise of appreciation, one so low you're not even sure you heard it and holy shit that fucker is staring at your ass. You straighten up as fast as you possibly can, your spine like some iron rod brutally jammed up through your back, and you only get stiffer when you realize Bro's right behind you now, taking your hands in his.

Wait, no, not stiffer like that-- shit, that's not what you meant! Christ, even your own inner monologue is against you, and Coach Bro's hands are enormous, dwarfing your own. He just barely adjusts your grip on the racket. "Now this is how you serve," he murmurs, right into your ear, and your shoulders are so taut you're pretty sure they're going to snap right in half.

Coach Bro drags your arms through the motions a few times, not that you'll retain any fucking bit of it, not with him all huge and hard behind you-- no, not that kind of hard, you just meant his fucking abs-- why are you thinking about his abs? Ugh.

"You know," he drawls, quiet and you think maybe amused, "they don't always call these things birdies." Lightly, Coach Bro shakes the hand you're using to hold the birdie, his body hunching over yours. You can feel his lips, practically on your ear, and his breathing is hot and maybe ticklish. "You know what they call 'em?" Yeah, he's grinning on your fucking ear. 

_"Shuttlecocks."_

His teeth nip your lobe and you nope right the fuck out of that situation, vaulting from his arms so fast it actually hurts. You think maybe you'll have bruises on your hands later, but at that second you don't care- you're too busy swearing loudly out of shock. Choice bits of your colorful vocabulary fly into the air as you do a pirouette off the fucking handle. Nearby, Rose's eyes are narrow, concerned, but it's a little bit fucking late for that, you've already been damn molested.

Hands on his hips, Coach Bro hardly seems bothered. In fact, he seems less than bothered. He actually looks like he's enjoying himself. "Well, that's uncalled for, kid," he says, like he's perfectly innocent and didn't just practically stick his tongue in your ear. "Not supposed to swear during school hours and all that. I think that's grounds for a detention, don't you?"

Your mouth snaps shut, effectively cutting off your tangent of 'fuck's, 'shit's, and 'goddamn can't a guy go one day without this sort of thing happening, saints' assholes's. Detention is not something you're overly familiar with because your teachers tend to like you. You're sure if you brought a pink slip home, no one there would approve, and you really do not like where this is going.

"Nothing left to say to that, huh?" Bro chuckles lowly. "Be in my office after school to serve your brand new shiny detention, 3:05 sharp."

And then he just walks away, even though you're pretty sure he's supposed to write you up or something. It doesn't matter. Both of you know you'll show up anyway just because of how much sheer terror he pumps into your circulatory system. 

Rose comes over to you and gives you one of her she-devil looks, like she's trying to pierce into your soul and see what's up in there. You give her a nasty look back that she obviously can't see because you are wearing fucking shades. "What?" you snip at her.

Instead of saying anything, she delicately clears her throat and gestures faintly downward. You become intimately aware of the boner you're now sporting, visible as fuck through your paltry blue gym shorts. You scream internally because no, hell no, hell fucking no, and the snarky part of your brain just whispers 'well I guess terror isn't the only thing he's pumping into your circulatory system.' You tell that part of your brain to fuck right off; unfortunately, so much of your brain is snark that it's ineffective.

You flee to the restroom for the rest of the period because you are so not dealing with awkward dick city. Still, you can feel Coach Bro laughing at you internally, and you can imagine him whispering "That was the plan, to give you a boner." That's not what actually happens, but it might as well have for all the internal screaming you're doing and the fact that your trouser snake doesn't seem to comprehend that you're actually terrefied of your PE teacher and you do not want to bone him.

Therefore, the rest of the day is pure anticipatory hell. You're anxious and you have no idea what to expect and what if he does try something? What are you going to do? Your beef truncheon seems to have a few ideas, but you've learned not to listen to that fucker and you're scared. You're pants-shittingly, unironically horrified by what might happen to you locked away in Coach Bro's little office where you'll probably have to sit for half an hour.

Maybe he wants to fuck you. He might just bend you over his desk and fuck you so hard your glasses fly off, tears running down your face even though you're not saying anything; can't say anything. Maybe he gagged you, maybe he threatened you, maybe you're just too ashamed, but you wouldn't say a word as he fucks you hard and fast and grunting. He would use you, and the he would slap you on the ass and tell you to get going before the folks in the office start to get suspicious.

And then, briefly, he'd lean over and whisper to you that if you tell anyway, he'll break you in half and fail you and you with your snotty little fucking kid face- that's what you are, a damn kid -you'd just nod, too mortified to say a word.

That scenario runs through your head for all of art class and you wonder just how fucked up you've gotten in the past hour. Judging by the old heat seeking love missile, pretty goddamn fucked up. You can't stop thinking about it and you're pretty sure you're just going to be hot and bothered for the rest of the day. You're sure as hell not jerking off in the bathroom to thoughts of your PE teacher raping you.

Well, that was a suspiciously specific denial, but you swear you aren't.

The final bell startles you when it rings at last, so shrill it pulls you right out of your messed up fantasies and into your messed up reality. Your heart starts to flutter hard, boom boom boom, and you feel like you're going to throw up. There's no way you can do this, not with all the shit that's been going through your head today. It'd be like talking to John while thinking about blowing him, which is legitimately impossible and has maybe you ramble incessantly rather than actually communicate more than once.

You head toward Coach Bro's office anyway. Too scared to disobey, too scared not to, and so you're just a big ball of jittery nerves. Nothing's going to happen, you tell yourself and rehash it so many times you almost manage to calm yourself down. Then you knock on the door to his office and here him say "Come in," and you lose all resolve at all, your heart dropping straight through your stomach and into some region south of Shanghai, China. It's too late to back out now, though, and you push open the door.

Bro's waiting for you, his hands steepled together like some sort of shitty supervillain. You can almost see him spinning around in his office chair, petting a large fluffy cat; you relax enough to step inside at that. Imagining him as a cartoonish villain makes it seem far less likely that he's going to do anything serious to you. Even evil has standards, the tropish part of your brain whispers.

"Close the door behind you," he says, deep and still sounding faintly amused by you. Nope, nevermind, you're still panicking. Definitely still panicking. Still, you do as he says. "Lock it." Your heart expedites its shipping from Shanghai right up into your throat, doubletime. You swallow, suddenly feeling like there's no liquid in your mouth, and your hands are trembling a little as you lock the door. 

"Now why don't you have a seat?" Coach Bro leans back from his desk, pushing himself away from it a bit and spreading his legs. You could almost interpret it as a 'come sit between these babies,' except that there is no way in the fiery depths of hell that you are ever going to do that. You swallow again, harder, and sit down in a chair across from him. His eyebrow quirks above his shitty anime shades and you try not to think about that too much.

"Dave," he says your name all low and fiery and your face goes red like you're a psychokinetic teenage girl at her first prom and they just dumped a vat of pig's blood directly onto your cheeks with no concern for how you're literally going to kill all of them soon enough and bullying is not a goddamn viable option unless you wanna bring a wouldbe serial killer down on your head- 

Man, you really need to stop letting your inner thoughts get away from you.

"That's not what I meant," he says.

You reply eloquently. "Huh?"

Coach Bro stretches out a little further and, between the tight clothes and the incredibly deliberate way he does it, you can basically see everything. You think you're gonna barf. "Come sit in my lap."

Are you fucking dreaming? "Uh," again, your way with words is mysteriously profound. Coach Bro outright laughs at you in a way that goes straight to your cock and makes you hideously ashamed all at the same time.

"I know you've noticed, kid. You ain't a damn idiot. Even Lalonde noticed that last time, and I ain't even been touching her. Not my type." You wish you could say a flare of protectiveness went through you or something but you're honestly too busy freaking the fuck out, focusing on keeping your breathing even enough to pass for calm instead of the short sharp bursts it wants to come out in. Bro notes your silence. "What, crow got your tongue? Get over here, kid, we don't got all night."

You stand on command and curse yourself. Maybe you can bolt. The door's locked but you know how to unlock it, nice and easy. You could do it, you think, and then you can avoid school for the rest of your life so you never have to deal with Coach Bro again.

Something about your stance must give you away, because Coach Bro shakes his head minutely. "Don't even think about it. We're doing this, one way or another, and you're either gonna get on my dick of your own accord or I'm gonna do it for you."

There's ice and fire in your veins. You don't even know how to react and your stomach is curdling. When you speak, your voice cracks right in half and it's probably the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you. "I cou-could scream," and then you inhale sharply, trying to regain your footing. "Office is right down the hallway. They'd hear me."

"Scream?" Bro chuckles. "Kid, you can't even talk. No, I've got you all to myself, and the only question is whether we're gonna do this the hard way or the easy way?"

You stand your ground for about all of one second, but he's so much bigger than you and for all that this is making you petrified out of your goddamn wits, your dick is interested. You really, really hate your dick right now. Bro leans forward and, well, you've never really believed in auras and shit like that, but you swear you can feel the lust and aggression radiating from him and it's so scary you practically scramble over his desk to get in his lap. Your legs are spindly and poke out on either side of him under the arms of the chair.

A self-satisfied smirk appears on Coach Bro's face. "That's what I thought," he says, placing the palm of his massive hand across the small of your back. You nearly leap out of your skin, but Bro doesn't seem to care. He just feels you, up and down, all across your back and your arms and your chest. His hands are too big for you, hot across your scrawny body, and you try desperately not to move at all. Movement might encourage him.

Of course, he seems to take your stillness as a personal challenge and, before you even know what's happening, tears off your shades. Now you're a deer in headlights, red eyes taking in the vibrant colors of life that you rarely every actually see, and your panic is so clearly evident that Coach Bro laughs. He tosses your shades- damn it, John gave those to you -and you start squirming. His gloved hands lock on your shoulders in a vice.

"Cool it, they're fine, man, you can get them after we're done," he placates you, like you're actually in this together. Still, it works, and you stop moving so much and he goes back to petting you. He seems to almost revere your tininess, rubbing at your nonexistant muscles and firmly stroking your ribcage. More than once, he wraps his hands around your wrists almost curiously, reveling in the fact that he can easily loop his fingers around you.

You sit through it, limp, confused, and getting a little more turned on by the minute; you don't know if you can help it. He's just paying so much attention to you, the sort of attention no one's ever paid you because you're a damn nerd. Even your friends don't want to fuck you, but here's your PE teacher, putting his hands on your hips and rubbing down the sides of your legs.

God, this is horrifying, your brain is already accepting what's happening and trying to get the good things out of it. You're so fucked up; have you always been this fucked up? You've never gotten your rocks off to thinking about Coach Bro slamming you while you begged and cried before, but before isn't now and that's exactly what you're doing.

It isn't until you're shaking that you realize exactly how far you've gone. You've been fixing your gaze steadily on nothing, the arm of the chair you're conveniently trapped in, and Bro flicks open the top of your pants. 

You flip your damn shit, swearing and trying to dart away, but Bro holds you down with _one fucking hand;_ it's so easy for him that shame starts to creep up in you and you feel like hell. There's not enough shame to stop his hands from dipping into your boxers and pulling out a hard cock of modest size, though, and you actively resist the urge to either puke or pass out. Instead, you let out a hard, heavy breath and shut your eyes.

Whatever Coach Bro is getting from this, he doesn't need you actively paying attention, apparently, because he doesn't reprimand you for biting down on your lip and trying to shut everything out. No, he just starts jerking you off, nice and easy, until your hips are rocking on their own and you're whispering nonsense under your breath. You've always been that way; the Orgasm Monologues, you call them, and you've even recorded them a few times because you never ever remember what you say.

It's always fucking nonsense, but whatever you're saying as you spurt a nasty mess into Bro's hand has him grinning when you blearily open your eyes.

A tsunami of 'god I'm just so tired, this has been super fucked up and I need to sleep so I can pretend this never happened' hits you point-blank in the face, and slowly you try to pull away from your captor. Surprisingly, he lets you go, lets you stand on your incredibly wobbly legs and tuck yourself into your pants and zip up. 

He lets you pick up your sunglasses, put them on, and open the fucking door before he drops the bomb.

"You've got detention for the rest of the week, Strider. You know the time and the place."

All you can do is nod meekly and leave, shutting the office door behind you. 

You're in deep shit.


End file.
